


painted stations whistle by

by couldaughter



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: Curtain Fic, F/M, Fluff, POV Female Character, Trains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:07:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27883483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/couldaughter/pseuds/couldaughter
Summary: Harriet, who had been writing her latest novel for long enough that it felt rather more like a child than a book, had sworn off reading for the weekend and was working on a scarf for the Dowager Duchess. It was slow-going, never having been much for knitting or crochet, but the motions were soothing and it was a more socially acceptable hobby for a train journey than discussing crime, no matter how happy one’s husband was to expound upon the subject.
Relationships: Harriet Vane/Peter Wimsey
Comments: 19
Kudos: 87
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	painted stations whistle by

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilybeth84](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilybeth84/gifts).



The 10:00 from Edinburgh — known since its inception as ‘The Flying Scotsman’, a name only recently rubber-stamped by the LNER — was near deserted; this suited Lord and Lady Peter nicely, after a long weekend of pleasant distraction in the Scottish capital. They’d wandered up and down enough hills that Harriet felt perfectly justified in slipping off her shoes — brown patent leather with a sensible low heel — and going about in stockinged feet from almost the moment they boarded.

Peter had already extracted his reading book from his valise and set to perusing; he’d been working his way through a selection of yellow backs picked up from the newsagent at King’s Cross, most of which he had enjoyed immensely. There was something of the fantastical about a Ruritanian, for all that the politics therein occasionally drove him to fits of anguish.

Harriet, who had been writing her latest novel for long enough that it felt rather more like a child than a book, had sworn off reading for the weekend and was working on a scarf for the Dowager Duchess. It was slow-going, never having been much for knitting or crochet, but the motions were soothing and it was a more socially acceptable hobby for a train journey than discussing crime, no matter how happy one’s husband was to expound upon the subject.

The _click_ of the needles against one another reminded her of a metronome, which got her thinking about the concert they were due to attend the following evening, and thus to a half-remembered aria whose ending floated just out of reach. She hummed what she could recall quietly, trying not to frown, and kept counting stitches. She’d previously made a pair of mittens for Bredon, who had seemed pleased enough with them when he put the left immediately into his mouth and chewed happily. Their firstborn was staying with the Dowager for the week, Honoria being a doting grandmother if prone to age-inappropriate digressions on literature, in the hopes of fostering a longstanding friendship. 

Bunter had justifiably taken his annual holiday while they fled northwards, and went to visit his mother who Harriet was privately convinced would outlive them all. One missive had reached them by telegram at the hotel, reporting that she was as yet in good health and had been glad to hear his lord and ladyship were in a similar condition.

It was impressive how he could give such nuance in such a short message. 

A polite knock on the compartment door heralded the conductor. “Tickets please,” he said pleasantly. Peter rummaged in his overcoat pockets for a moment before retrieving them with a small hum of triumph. 

“Thank you,” said the conductor. He handed the tickets back. “The dining car has just opened for light refreshments, and lunch will be served just after noon.”

“Capital,” said Peter. Harriet murmured an agreement, still focused on her scarf, and nodded politely at the conductor as he turned to leave.

“What say you, dearest?” Peter asked. “Shall we make haste to the feast being laid?”

“I ought to finish this row first,” said Harriet, feeling delightfully practical. “But after that, I should certainly approve of a cup of strong tea and a few biscuits.”

Peter waited obligingly while Harriet counted her stitches — she’d picked up an appalling habit of dropping them mid-row in conversation — and once she’d safely packed away her work he offered an elbow, which Harriet took, smiling.

The corridor along the carriage was narrow enough that this courtesy became more impractical than chivalrous but they persisted in the fashion of the overly-in-love, arriving at the dining car with a sigh of relief. Peter’s shoulder had begun to twinge.

A pot of tea was swiftly ordered and the two of them seated at a small table, the chairs comfortable despite narrow backs. Harriet settled back into it and rested her stockinged feet on her husband’s knees.

They spent a pleasant few minutes sipping at lapsang souchong and watching the scenery flash past the window. Peter set one hand on Harriet’s left ankle and the attendant warmth was really very agreeable, Harriet thought, although she would prefer to abandon propriety entirely and sit rather closer by. 

She glanced beneath the table, thinking idly of her crossword, and narrowed her eyes at a flash of fur. “I say, is that a Steiff?” 

They’d bought a similar toy for Bredon’s first Christmas, a stout little bear Bredon carried with him everywhere and had apparently named ‘Bear’ in a fit of observation. Harriet fished the thing out from beneath her seat and set it on the table before her.

“It would seem to be the case,” said Peter, bemused. He picked it up and fished his monocle out from his top pocket. “No identifying markings beyond the obvious button in the ear which, as you so astutely observed, merely pins down the manufacturer.”

“There must be a rather distraught child somewhere on the train, then,” Harriet replied. She furrowed her brow. “Perhaps we ought to locate his owner and prevent further distress.”

A swift enquiry made to the waiter gave some further details, at least so far as that the bear did indeed belong to a small child who had been carried off by their parents after falling asleep over a cup of cocoa.

Harriet thanked him, paid for the tea, and accompanied Peter back out of the dining car. Peter, self-appointed guardian of the bear, held it carefully in the crook of his elbow.

“Well, dearest,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “I suppose if you _must_ find us a mystery every so often, this one is rather the nicest.”

“Yes, much preferable to bodies on the beach or a bonfire in the quad,” Harriet replied. Her husband, being crowded against the wall of the carriage, accepted a kiss with equanimity before they continued on.

They could eliminate most of the compartments they crossed simply for lack of anyone young enough, being mostly filled with men of business or courting couples. Harriet was rather glad they’d managed to find their own compartment — she’d never been terribly comfortable sharing such a narrow space with strangers.

“Ah, good afternoon,” said Peter, as they passed by a small procession of — by the look of them — students returning to London after winter hols. 

They mumbled a few variations of _good afternoon_ in his direction and filed past with little fanfare. Harriet watched them go with an odd fondness swelling in her chest.

She’d taken the train to Oxford many times, but rarely with friends. She hoped this particular group fit into that category.

Peter, she was fairly sure, had not so much had friends at Balliol as strategic acquaintances, but he’d more than made up for it in adult life with Parker and Arbuthnot. Much as Harriet had fallen in with Sylvia and Eiluned, she supposed.

“How is your passenger faring?” Harriet asked, some time later. They were nearing the end of the train and had yet to find a child missing their bear. She was beginning to worry that it had in fact been left on the train up towards Edinburgh and the owner was already at home, inconsolable.

Peter patted the bear on the head and squinted at it for a moment. “Perfectly well, I think,” he said. “I don’t speak bear, I’m afraid. One of my many deficits.”

Harriet couldn’t help but smile at that. Peter looked quite pleased with himself over it, before knocking on the door of the next compartment and sliding it open. The occupants, a tired looking young couple and a red-faced little girl of about five, looked over.

“Pardon me for interruptin’,” he said, amicably. “But we found this little fellow in the dining car earlier and were wonderin’ if you could help us find his proper place.”

The teary-eyed girl’s eyes grew saucer-wide and she let out a shriek of joy, reaching both arms towards the bear. 

The mother, looking exceptionally relieved, accepted the bear with both hands and nodded her thanks. “Oh, Hattie was so worried about this little thing.” She passed it across, and the little girl immediately wrapped both arms tightly around the bear’s middle. “What do you say, Hattie?”

Hattie looked up, eyes still wide. “Th’nk you,” she mumbled.

“No trouble at all,” said Peter. Harriet rolled her eyes as he gave the girl a small bow in return, making her giggle into the bear’s fur. “Always glad to be of help.”

Both parents thanked them again, offering a seat and a biscuit to them both.

“Thank you very much,” said Harriet, who was rather full on tea and do-gooding. “But we ought to get back to our compartment. Much longer and the place will start growing spiderwebs, I shouldn’t wonder.”

And, of course, her knitting wouldn’t get done by itself.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed this little jaunt into peter and harriet's occasionally idyllic married life! thank you for reading and i hope your yuletide is as delightful as these books are
> 
> RESEARCH NOTES  
> LNER = London and North East Railways  
> https://collection.sciencemuseumgroup.org.uk/objects/co8023290/bartholomews-railway-map-of-the-british-isles-map  
> https://www.bluebell-railway.co.uk/bluebell/car_fs1.html  
> if you search pathé for trains in the 1930s it will all be railway disasters  
> https://railway-history.walkingclub.org.uk/2010/01/golden-age-of-railways.html  
> i don’t know if this level of emptiness was actually typical on the edinburgh-london service in 1938 but please allow an author their little fancies - total journey time is 7 hours and 20 minutes! https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flying_Scotsman_(train)  
> https://www.insider.com/old-vintage-train-travel-photos-2017-4#and-more-romantic-20  
> steiff is a venerable and quite expensive brand of teddy bears which have been produced continually since the 1880s! https://www.thesteiffshop.com/


End file.
